Finding Elmo by Monique Polak Page A

And though it might sound weird—especially if you’ve never gotten to know a bird—I was as close to Elmo as I was to Philippe, who’d been my friend since preschool.
    I’d hardly seen Philippe since we’d moved to Lasalle. During the week he worked at a day camp near our old house; on weekends I was busy at the store. And so far I hadn’t made any new friends in Lasalle. Mom and Dad said things would get easier for me once school started. I hoped they were right.
    Thank goodness I still had Elmo. I just hoped his hefty price tag—two thousand dollars—would keep anyone from buying him.
    It takes longer to feed Elmo than the other birds because of the padlocks. Elmo’s an escape artist. Opening latches and padlocks is his hobby, the way some people collect coins or play computer games. Elmo will spend weeks using his beak to play with a lock, until he finally pries it open. Dad keeps adding more locks. Right now there are three on Elmo’s cage.
    A soft warm body rubbed up against my shins as I closed the aviary door. I reached down to pet Ginger, the store cat. Someone had abandoned her at our old store.
    A marmalade cat, she spent most of her days in the front window, soaking up the sun in a giant cat condominium that was dotted with bits of her orange fur.
    â€œHey, Ginger. I’ll be back when I’m done with the turtles.”
    Ginger purred.
    Animals are easy. All you have to do is feed them and pet them and clean their cages and they’ll be friends with you forever. Human beings are another story. Human beings are way more complicated.

chapter two
    Dad usually sings when he walks into the store. Dumb songs mostly, like “How Much is that Doggie in the Window?” He also stops to say hi to everyone—even strangers— and to pet the animals. He’s often got dog biscuits or cat treats in his pockets.
    Not today.
    Today Dad rushed by all of us and headed straight to his office at the back of the store. I was cleaning out the rabbit pen,but I saw him go by. When he slammed the door behind him, Cottontail went to hide underneath a log. All I could see of her was the end of one brown floppy ear.
    I reached under a clump of hay until I found a small red wool ball. When I rolled it in Cottontail’s direction, she peeked out from under the hay, her nostrils quivering. Cottontail’s obsessed with cat toys.
    â€œEverything okay this morning?” a soft voice behind me asked.
    â€œHey, Amy,” I said, turning around. Amy’s our bird girl. She looks like a punk rocker, but she’s actually studying to be a vet tech.
    â€œBirds fed?” Amy asked.
    â€œYup.”
    â€œElmo still here? Nobody stole him?”
    â€œStill here.” Amy made the same joke every morning. She knew how much I loved Elmo.
    â€œWe’re expecting a shipment of fledgling lovebirds. I could use a little help when they get here.”
    After Amy left for the aviary, I finished changing the hay. Rabbits don’t just sleepin hay, they eat it. It would be like us eating our sheets.
    Once I’d finished in the rabbit pen, I walked over to Dad’s office. On the way, I passed the fish department. Trout, our aquarium guy, was skimming the deads, using a gauzy strainer to remove the fish that had died overnight. Dead fish are part of aquarium life, but they don’t make a good impression.
    I knocked.
    When Dad didn’t say anything, I knocked again.
    â€œWho is it?” Dad sounded tense.
    â€œIt’s me, Tim.”
    â€œCome on in.” Though he’d invited me in, I had the feeling he didn’t really want me hanging around.
    Dad was hunched over his computer. There was a spreadsheet on the screen. That meant he was working on the budget. Realco—the real estate company that owns the Lasalle Mall—had offered us six months’ free rent as incentive to move Four Feet and Feathers.
    I knew Dad was worried about what